Fate works in mysterious ways: thirteen years later, I embraced my one true love again.

My graduation ball loomed ahead. Though dateless, I anticipated the evening with quiet certainty—destiny would take care of the rest. When the moment arrived, I’d simply *know* who to share it with.

That afternoon, I smoothed my tailored charcoal suit, checked my reflection, and after a nod from my parents, headed to the banquet hall. Amidst glittering smiles and swirling gowns, my gaze landed on a girl standing alone. I recognized her—Eleanor Harper from the year below. We’d never spoken, yet suddenly she seemed… different. Slender, poised, with storm-gray eyes and honey-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders.

I don’t recall mustering courage—only stepping forward, offering my hand, and asking her to dance. From that moment until dawn, we never parted.

By sunrise, I knew: she was meant to be mine.

But fate had other plans.

**A Fractured Heart**
Eleanor didn’t feel the same. She’d been waiting for a boyfriend studying abroad, set to return after graduation. They were engaged.

I refused to believe it.

For two years, I lingered near her street, hiding in shadows when she passed. Hoping she’d notice me, yet dreading she’d see my anguish. Every glance she spared elsewhere, every laugh shared with others, carved deeper wounds.

When she married, I watched from afar, rain soaking my coat as the chapel bells rang.

I vowed to wait.

Dating others felt hollow—no one matched her wit, her quiet grace. Years slipped by, colorless and cold.

**Fate’s Second Chance**
Thirteen winters later, tragedy struck.

Eleanor’s husband died in a car crash. She survived but walked with a cane, her left leg never fully healing.

Destiny handed me another thread.

Yet I waited—until we both turned thirty-five. Only then did I finally take her hand.

She studied me, exhaustion and sorrow etched into her face. “Why are you still here?”

What could I say? That I’d loved her silently? That her absence haunted every room? Instead, I pulled her close.

**The Years We Shared**
A decade followed, radiant yet fragile. We couldn’t have children—her injuries made it impossible—but it didn’t matter. I loved her silver-streaked hair, her weary smiles, the way she’d grip my hand during flare-ups.

Then fate intervened again.

Cancer. Doctors mentioned clinical trials, but she declined. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered one evening, scissors glinting as she cut her hair.

“Why?” I choked out.

“For someone who still has time to fight.” Her locks became a wig for a stranger battling the same storm.

Eleanor knew her war was lost.

I held her until her breath faded.

If I relived my life, I’d choose every heartache, every silent year—just to love her twice. For she was my compass, my north star, my always.